


When darkness lifts and the room is bright

by GreenGarnets



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5559961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenGarnets/pseuds/GreenGarnets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This pretty much ignores everything that happens in 5.12 after Carrie thwarts the attack at Berlin HbH because ... well, you can probably guess why.</p><p>I've borrowed the nurse character from plume_bob - hope that's okay.</p><p>This is my first fic for this fandom. Feedback welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three weeks

It takes three weeks for him to wake up.

Attack on the station averted, hunch correct, heroics acknowledged, bureaucracy grinding into gear to take over the operation, she settles in to do what she likes to do least, but what he needs most - wait.

She picks up loose ends that she had dropped when she had to disappear. She calls Jonas, acts like a civilized adult, offers apologies and gratitude, ends the relationship. He is gracious enough to reciprocate by getting a bag to her - clothes, toiletries, meds, her laptop, a stack of unread New Yorkers.

The hospital sets her up in family quarters. Her favorite of the nurses suggests it and starts the process after she comes on shift one morning at 7am and finds her hunched in a visitor's chair, her head on the mattress near his hand.

She re-establishes regular contact with Maggie and Frannie, and explains the situation.

"I need to stick around for a bit, Maggie. I need to be here when he wakes up. I'd be dead if it wasn't for him, and I just....I just have to put him first for a change. He's done it for me so many times. I hope you understand."

Maggie remembers how she was after he disappeared two years ago. She doesn't imagine watching him die (or as good as) on the news has made her any more willing to let him out of her sight. Maggie assures her that it's no trouble, that the nanny is taking great care of Frannie and they've had to force her to take the occasional day off since Carrie's temporary disappearance, so worried has she been about Frannie's state of mind. Once she gets her laptop up and running, she wires Maggie a chunk of cash for expenses.

She settles into a regular routine. Up early for a run or yoga, then shower and breakfast and into the hospital not long after shift change, a bag full of work and reading material slung over her shoulder and coffee for herself and the morning nurse in hand. She establishes herself in the armchair to fill in paperwork, write and read reports and briefings, keep up email and text correspondence. In between she reads any English-language papers she can get cover to cover, and fills in with the New Yorker.

She talks to him about all of it - reads sections or whole articles aloud, assesses situations and analyses, tells stories from Maggie and Saul. She imagines his responses, acerbic and clever, thoughtful and measured. She wants him to know she's there, to keep the light shining so that he can find his way out when he's ready. She thinks about him and his watchful, patient stillness, and she emulates him. She does not doubt that he is coming back, and that she is helping. Her favorite nurse agrees with her privately, even though she admits there's no evidence to support it.

"But I've noticed they come back more often if there's something to come back *for*. And he knows you're here. I can tell."

"How?" Carrie asks her curiously.

"Oh, I don't know," she replies evasively, "nothing you can put your finger on, really. Just a feeling in the room that's different when you're here."

She helps out as much as they'll let her - which is not a lot, as really, who knows what right she has to be there? - and she learns to read the monitors, to interpret the incessant stream of noises and numbers.

They don't change much, for a long time. They have told her, repeatedly, that they can't be sure they ever will.

One grey afternoon, she is in her usual spot. The ward is quiet, and she's tired. She stayed up late for a Skype call with Langley, then got up at her usual time to keep to schedule. Now it's 3:30 and she's struggling to stay awake, reading aloud from the New Yorker, leaning forward from her chair, elbows propped on his mattress.

Her head nods, once, twice. Her voice trails off into a mumbled slur. She folds her arms and puts her head on them, facing towards him...just a catnap, she thinks groggily. A few minutes won't hurt.

She wakes up because someone is touching her face.

"...the fuck?" she mumbles blearily. Why would a nurse be touching her face to wake her up? Wouldn't she tap her on the shoulder like a normal person? Unless....

Instantly wide awake, her eyes pop open - to see him looking down at her. It feels as though her heart stops, but she's afraid to believe it's real yet. "Quinn?" she whispers. He doesn't respond, at least not in words; but his gaze focuses in on her and his hand moves to cup her face gently.

He's awake, she thinks to herself incredulously. He's really here. She reaches up to cover his hand with her own, and for a few minutes, they just look at each other.

I don't want to know yet, she thinks. He knows who I am and he can touch me. After all the horror and misery, that's all I want right now. I don't care about the future, or the past. Just this. Someone else can decide what has to happen next.

It happens soon enough - the nurse on duty comes in to do her hourly check. Luckily it's her favorite nurse - Sahar. Quinn turns his head towards the door as she enters quietly, and Sahar moves swiftly but calmly to his side, checking the monitors as Carrie raises her head, keeping hold of his hand.

"Well, hello there, Peter Quinn," says Sahar, picking up his other hand and looking at him closely. "We've been wondering when you were going to join us."


	2. Five weeks

It takes five weeks for him to be fully conscious and lucid.

He's awake every day after the first day, for longer and longer stretches. He tires easily at first, and drifts away, and she carries on as before. At first he can't talk, although she's not sure if this is due to vocal or neurological damage. She never does find out, because before long he starts to croak out a few words, then a few more - simple questions about his condition and the situation outside, followed soon enough by longer answers to the battery of questions he gets asked. She thinks, sitting by and watching with fascination, that in some ways it's like watching Frannie acquire skills, but on fast forward: every day he makes measurable progress and the doctors and therapists who cycle through to monitor and test are clearly pleased, if bemused.

"...that guy's a fucking living, breathing miracle," she hears one of the residents mutter to another after rounds one day. She smiles to herself, even as she shivers at the thought of what could have been if he hadn't. She glances over at him, expecting him to be drifting off after talking to so many people, but his eyes are open, regarding her with the thoughtful intensity she remembers.

She smiles at him and leans forward to whisper conspiratorially. "Did you hear that, Miracle Man?"

His eyes crinkle up in amusement. "And that's before they've even figured out what my superpowers are," he rasps.

"Oho," she says, intrigued. "And what might those be?"

"That's for me to know and for you to find out," he teases, with a wicked glint.

"I see," she says, putting her head to one side and studying him thoughtfully. He looks back, absorbing her scrutiny unflappably.

"What is it?" he asks finally, his tone calm.

"I don't know," she responds, trying to figure out how to articulate something that's been nagging at her for the last several days. "You seem ... different. Since you woke up."

"In what way?" he asks.

"I don't know," she says, puzzled. "Less...angry and distant. More ...here."

He ponders this, and then nods. "Yes," he agrees. "I came back."

This doesn't clarify things any for her. "Came back?"

"Yeah." He pauses, looks away, thinking; he's still working on getting all his words back in the right order. "When I went back to Syria....I gave it all up. Any hope that I could get away from the darkness, have a life like other people. I thought...that's what was supposed to happen. I had tried to get away so many times, and it just hadn't worked. I thought it never could...so I just gave in and let it take me."

He looks back at her. Her eyes are fixed on his face and she is sitting very, very still. Then she nods just a fraction.

"I figured I was a goner. It already felt like my soul was dead; the rest was just a formality. And I came close, so many times, and I just kept putting myself out in front." He pauses again.

"But here's the thing. *It never happened.* No matter what I did. I mean, who survives a fucking sarin gas attack? Without a scratch, no less?" He lifts his hands from his lap - weak but fully functional - and looks at them, then back at her.

"I've had a lot of time to think since then. I think maybe I was thinking even before I woke up. And here's what I'm thinking: maybe I've been getting the wrong message all this time."

She shakes her head slightly at this, still confused.

"Maybe giving in to the darkness isn't what I'm supposed to be doing," he emphasizes, seeing her incomprehension. "Maybe there's another choice that I've been too fucked up to see before now. Maybe there's another way."

He pauses again, and reaches for the water cup next to his bed. Takes a drink and puts it back. He leans forward and looks at her intently.

"I remember when I realized they were going to put me in that tank and gas me," he says with quiet intensity. "And I wasn't relieved, or resigned, or any of those things I thought I would be if I was ready. I was *angry*, Carrie. Because I wanted that to not be all there was. I wanted more."

He leans back. "And now I've got more. I've got a second chance. And I get to choose what I do with it. I gave the other way everything I had. And I'm not wasting any more time on that."

He puts his head back against the bed; it's the most he's talked at once since he woke up, and it's clearly tired him out.

She feels as if she's been holding her breath the whole time; as if she can't quite let it out yet.

"What are you going to do instead?" she asks faintly. "Do you know?"

He looks at her and takes a deep breath, and she feels every muscle tense.

"Get better and stronger. Tell the truth. Find a way to do some good in the world." He swallows. "Be with you. If you want that."

She exhales then, in a painful whoosh, like the wind getting knocked out of her. She leans forward; when she speaks, her voice croaks.

"I do want that. But ... Frannie too? Are you sure you want to decide now?"

"Frannie too," he asserts. He picks up her hand, clenched on the mattress, and squeezes it. "And I decided a long time ago. I was just too scared to admit it."

She still can't quite believe it. It seems so simple, after so much trouble and strife. "Just like that?" she asks dazedly.

"Just like that," he confirms. "You'll see."

Then he tugs on her hand, pulling her towards him, and kisses her.


	3. Eleven weeks

It takes eleven weeks before he starts to regain some independent mobility.

He knows they don't fully believe what he is saying - neither Carrie nor the medical staff. He knows they're all waiting for the other shoe to drop, for PTSD to kick in, for his past baggage to re-establish its weight on his back. For him to chafe at his limitations, his weakness, his dependence on other people. He keeps saying he came through ‘without a scratch’, but this is typical Peter Quinn understatement; he knows he has a long road to travel, even if they all think he’s in denial right now.

But he's always been patient. And this is a new life - it stands to reason he has some new things to learn. Starting with basics like walking and talking doesn't seem so bad. As for the PTSD and the anguish and the fortress he built to try to protect himself from feeling anything human - it seems like he left those things behind, burned up while he gasped his old life away. He did a lot of bad shit but he knows now, with a searing clarity that he can't fully explain, that he will have to repay that debt some other way than by sacrificing his soul. He's tried and tried, and the offer has been conclusively rejected. It's time to try something else.

So he takes stock of the options currently available to him, and sets to work with his usual methodical thoroughness. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. Speech therapy. Talk therapy. He does all of them, whatever is asked of him, without complaint or comment. The consensus among the medical team is that it is likely he can return to full functioning in all areas; some will take more work than others, and some things may be lost forever, but overall the prognosis is astonishingly good. He accepts these judgments matter-of-factly, and goes back to work lifting weights, working on puzzles, saying tongue twisters. Short of revealing classified information, he answers every question asked of him bluntly and honestly.

"How do you feel about these things that have happened to you?" a therapist probes one summer afternoon as he sits in her office in his wheelchair. He's working on maneuvering around the hospital on his own now, and they've worked out how far he can go on foot, how far with crutches, how far in a wheelchair. He tracks this himself and works on pushing each boundary just a bit each day. He knows he'll be too tired by the end of this appointment to wheel himself back, so Carrie is coming to get him. He's looking forward to that.

He doesn't quite shrug when he responds, but pretty close. "I feel that they were the logical end of the path I was on," he says. "Extreme, but logical."

"And why do you feel you were on that path?" the therapist asks.

"Because I didn't feel like my life was worth living, or that I was worth anything other than as a tool to serve other people's ends," he says flatly.

"That's a pretty dark place to be, Peter," she comments. "Are you still there?"

"No," he says simply. "I'm not."

"And how do you know that?" she presses.

"Because I took that premise to its logical conclusion, to the end of the path. And I'm still here. It's like...a bonus round in a video game. Now I get to start over."

She looks quizzical at this, but then nods in response to his calm certainty. “You sound very sure.”

“It’s what I’m trained for,” he points out. “Gather information, make assessments.”

“Okay,” she nods, then looks at the clock. “Looks like our time is up – it might be good if you could start to use some of your occupational therapy time to do some journaling, maybe about what you think ‘starting over’ means?”

“Sure,” he says as, right on time, there’s a soft knock at the door.

“Come in,” Dr. Hall calls, and Carrie pokes her head around the door. She flashes a smile at him, then asks, “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“Not at all, Carrie, we’ve just finished,” Dr. Hall smiles back at her, and she comes in the rest of the way and stands next to him, one hand touching his shoulder lightly. “Same time next week, Peter?”

“I think I should be free,” he responds drily, and glances up at Carrie. “Ready?”

“Yep. Thanks, Dr. Hall,” Carrie says with a little wave and, grasping the handles of his chair, swings him around to push out into the corridor.

They don’t talk until they reach the elevator bank, then Carrie puts her hand gently on the back of his neck. “Do you want to go straight back to your room?” she asks.

He looks up. “Could we go to the roof deck for a bit? It’d be nice to get some fresh air,” he suggests.

“Sure,” she says, and pushes the ‘Up’ button, then comes back next to him to wait. She puts her hand back where it was, just at the edge of his shirt collar, so that her fingers are brushing against his bare skin. 

She does that a lot, he’s noticed. It started after he got shot, and it seems to be continuing, if not increasing. He’s never thought of her as a particularly touchy-feely person, but he may need to re-assess that. He’s also never thought of himself as someone who particularly likes to be touched; it’s always meant a kind of intimacy that he wasn’t prepared to enter into.

Looks like he might need to re-assess that also. Because he doesn’t mind. At all. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

The elevator comes, and they maneuver into it. There are already other people in there, so Carrie tucks herself right up behind him, both hands on his shoulders this time. He reaches up to cover one of them with his own, noticing that he’s starting to tremble a bit – end of the day fatigue coming on. 

They don’t speak again until they’re out on the roof deck, where the late-afternoon sun is warm and gentle. She wheels him to their usual spot at the far end, next to a comfortable wooden bench which looks out over the nature reserve behind the hospital. She puts the brake on the chair and comes around to offer support as he slowly levers himself upright, grabbing the deck railing for support and shifting position so he can lower himself onto the bench. When he’s settled and his breathing is returning to normal after the exertion, she sits down right next to him, her hand resting on his leg. He puts his arm around her and she turns her face up to his for a gentle, lingering kiss.

“How’s your day been?” he asks. He hasn’t seen her since this morning; he had a full day of appointments, and she went into Kaiserslautern to do various errands.

“Good,” she responds. “I got you some more clothes and some of the stuff they suggested for OT – Sudoku and things like that. They’re in your room.”

“Great, thanks,” he says. Now that he’s up and about, they’ve suggested he get out of hospital johnnies and into pjs and sweats – it’s morale boosting, they say, plus he has to re-learn how to dress himself anyway. 

“How about you?” she asks. “How did your appointments go?”

“Pretty well,” he says vaguely. “I’m starting a new level in PT this week, to start building my endurance back up.” He clears his throat. “And I got an email from Dar Adal.”

He feels her jerk convulsively and she looks at him sharply. 

“That fucker,” she mutters, and her eyes flick away, as though looking for a tail hiding behind one of the potted plants scattered around the deck. “What did *he* want?”

“Well, I sent him an email last week,” he tells her, trying not to smile at her reaction. “I thought someone should let him know that you hadn’t ended up smothering me with a pillow after all, and I assumed you hadn’t passed that along.”

“As if,” she snorts. “He’d have been on the next plane to do it himself if I had.”

“Carrie, he needs to know I’m alive if he’s going to process me out,” he points out patiently. “So I figured I might as well get the ball rolling and do something useful while I’m learning to type again.”

“And what makes you think he’s going to do anything of the kind?” she demands. “You’re *his guy*, remember? Why should he ever let you go?”

He looks at her, bemused. She’s the smartest person he knows most of the time, but occasionally she’s so obtuse it’s mind-boggling.

“Carrie, I’m absolutely no use to him anymore,” he says. She squints at him combatively and seems about to challenge this statement, and he overrides her. “Not just because I’m injured. My cover is totally blown. My face and my name have been plastered on TV news all over the world. I’ll never be able to do a covert op again. He has no choice.”

He watches her expression change from belligerent to shocked as he speaks. “Had you really not worked that out?”

Speechless, she shakes her head slowly, then recovers. “I never thought about that. I just thought he’d never, ever let you go. I’ve been thinking we might even have to go underground again to get away from him.”

He leans over and whispers, “He’s talking about organizing a pension for me. Says I’ve got 20 years in and it’s the least a grateful nation can do for my ‘heroic actions’.”

She shakes her head again in disbelief. “Fucking hell, Quinn. You really are the Miracle Man.”

He chuckles and pulls her close to kiss her forehead. “Even if I still haven’t worked out how to tie my goddamn shoes yet.”


	4. Sixteen weeks

It takes sixteen weeks before they start talking discharge. *Limited* discharge.

"You're in family quarters," Sahar points out one afternoon at the end of August when she drops by for a visit. Peter's been out of ICU for weeks, but she's still keeping an eye on him. Both of them, really. At the moment they're both on his bed; Peter sprawled out looking wiped after a grueling PT session, Carrie sitting cross-legged at the bottom, rubbing his feet and calves which are spasming with fatigue.

Carrie looks up from what she's doing. "Yeah...?" she responds.

"So, Peter could be transferred to outpatient status and stay there with you," Sahar suggests. "It's the logical next step to prepare for overseas transfer."

Peter just looks at Carrie, is eyes half-open. "What do you think?" 

She looks doubtfully from him back to Sahar. "Will they agree to that? I mean, I'm not ... and we're not..."

Sahar shakes her head and smiles at her, picking up what she is failing to say. "Honey, no one expects you to be a qualified nurse...although at this point you might be! And trust me that *no one* cares about your legal status. Everyone here knows the score. So...do you want me to say a word to the team?"

"Yes," Carrie says immediately. "Please." Then looks at Peter. "Okay?"

"Definitely," he says, smiling back at her.

"I'll get right on it," says Sahar, and goes on her way with a wave.

As soon as she's gone, he turns back and peers at her. "Are you sure about this? Because if it's too much...."

"Positive," she says firmly, leaning over his feet and looking right back. "I admit, it's a little scary at first to think about not having a medical team six feet away, but the sooner we start adjusting to normal life the better, as far as I'm concerned." He still looks dubious, and she shakes his feet gently. "Relax, Quinn. This is a good thing."

"If you say so," he murmurs, smiling again. He trusts her. Sometimes he still surprises himself at how much.

~*~*~*~

They arrange the move for a day when he doesn't have much else on, telling him he'll need all his mental and physical energy to make the transition. He is privately skeptical about this; all he's going to do is sit in a wheelchair and get pushed from Point A to Point B. How much energy is that going to require?

He hasn't figured on the paperwork and the contingency briefing and the med schedule briefing and just the sheer number of people he'd have to talk to. Not to mention the typical hospital delays in getting all these things done and that, finally, it turns out to take twice as long to get a wheelchair from his room to the family quarters as it takes Carrie on her own, charging up and down staircases and sliding through backups in the corridors. By the time they wheel through the door of her flat, a porter behind them pushing a cart piled with bags of clothes and meds, it's after 5:30 and he is just as exhausted as they said he would be.

He sits quietly in the chair as Carrie helps the porter unload the cart and sees him out. He's so relieved to be out of a hospital room that even the impersonal furnished apartment seems homey to him.

"Nice place you got here," he quips faintly as Carrie comes back from locking the front door and crouches down next to him.

"Welcome home," she replies, trying to sound sardonic and not really succeeding. "How're you doing?"

"Okay. Better now that I'm here where nothing goes 'ping'," he jokes. "Also it smells great in here. What *is* that?"

To his surprise, she blushes. "Um...you're not going to believe this, but...I made dinner," she blurts out, looking more embarrassed than he's ever seen her before.

He is actually speechless for a moment. "You're right, I do not believe that. Who are you and what have you done with the real Carrie Mathison?"

She puts her face in her hands, mortified, and then confesses all. She couldn't stand any more of the hospital food, and she was going broke on takeout. Maggie had suggested she get a small slow cooker and sent her a cookbook, and she'd been using it constantly. So she thought she'd make something to celebrate his first night away from crappy hospital food.

He shakes his head. "You've been holding out on me, Mathison. Why haven't you been smuggling rations in to me? And more to the point, what are we having?"

She’s made a chunky minestrone - easy to eat, even for someone with compromised motor skills - and bought a loaf of fresh bread at the market. They sit to eat at the small kitchen table, knees pressed companionably together.

He doesn't talk much during dinner, focusing his energy and attention on emptying two bowls of soup into his mouth and not down his shirtfront. Finally he sits back with a sigh. "Well, that was impressive, Mathison. What else can you do that I don't know about?"

She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively as she stands up to collect the dirty dishes. "This is only the beginning, Miracle Man." 

"I can't wait for the rest," he parries, then groans and curses as he shifts position.

Carrie turns from the sink. "Ready for your meds?" she asks.

"Fuck, yes," he gasps. "I'll go to the bathroom first and get ready for bed, though - the nighttime ones knock me out."

"Okay," she agrees. "Do you need me?"

"I think I can manage, if you can just dose me up when I'm done?" he asks.

"No problem, I'll finish in here and meet you in there in a few." She smiles at him and turns back to the sink. He grabs his crutches from where she has left them handy, and makes his way slowly to the bathroom.

She comes in five minutes later to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, struggling with the zip on his hoodie, his hands shaking with fatigue.

"All set?" she asks, kneeling down in front of him and taking over with the zipper. She helps him take the hoodie off, and drapes it over the foot of the bed. "Do you want pjs?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "Just help me get these off, please," he asks, pointing to his track pants. She helps him stand up, then slides the trousers over his hips and quickly turns the bedcovers down at the same time. He sinks down again and she helps him swing his legs onto the mattress. She gently tugs the track pants over his feet, then pulls the blankets up over him. He sinks back onto the pillows with a groan.

She looks at him closely. "Okay?" He nods. "Okay, I'll get your meds." She disappears into the bathroom and he hears rattling and thumping and water running. She comes back out with a cup in each hand, and sits down next to him. He shifts himself to a more upright position and she hands him a cup with pills and one with water, then watches as he knocks them back. She looks through the bathroom door to where the shelf over the sink is visible, lined with bottles – his on the left, hers on the right.

"If the money runs out, we can always start dealing on the side," she jokes, tilting her head that way. "We've got a goddamn his'n'hers pharmacy set up in there."

He chuckles, then drinks the last of the water and sinks back again. "You ready to go to sleep?" she asks, brushing back his hair gently.

He nods tiredly. "Come with?" he asks, patting the mattress.

She smiles. "Give me two minutes," she says, and leans over to give him a quick kiss.

By the time she's finished in the bathroom, he's slid down flat and is breathing deeply, eyes closed. She tiptoes around to the other side and shuts off the lamp, then slides in next to him. She scooches across gingerly until she feels his knee, then stops, wanting to be close to him but worried she'll jostle him or cause further pain.

He doesn't seem worried, though; once he realizes she's there, he reaches out his arms and pulls her closer. He slides one arm under her and wraps her up tightly. She wraps her arm around his shoulders and he buries his face in the curve of her neck. She strokes his hair and kisses his forehead, feeling the whole length of him pressed up against her, their bare legs entwined and his heart thumping steadily. He makes a noise somewhere between a deep sigh and a whimper, and she feels her throat tighten. 

"You're okay, Quinn," she whispers, cradling him. "I've got you."

So long, she thinks with relief and exhaustion, as she drifts off too. I've been waiting for this for so long.


	5. Nineteen weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some semi-mature content in this chapter - look away now if not appropriate for you!

It takes nineteen weeks before they start talking seriously about overseas transfer.

“How am I going to know when I should book tickets?” Carrie asks Sahar one afternoon in mid-September. Peter is in a speech therapy session, and Carrie has dropped by the ICU because she knows she’s on duty. She doesn’t mind asking Sahar whatever questions come into her mind.

Sahar looks at her like she’s got two heads. “Honey, you’re not flying commercial. What are you thinking?”

Carrie looks taken aback. “We’re not?”

“Of course not! You’re going by medical transport and he’ll be straight into Walter Reed as soon as you land to make sure the trip didn’t cause any setbacks.”

“Oh.” Carrie seems nonplussed. “So he’s not actually being discharged.”

“Not yet,” Sahar says, “but getting cleared for overseas transfer is a *huge* step forward.”

“And how does that happen?” Carrie asks.

“They’ll be scheduling another round of tests soon – especially stress tests. You’ll know more after that.”

~*~*~*~

The medical and therapy teams all comment on how much progress he’s made just in the past few weeks. Since he’s been on outpatient status he’s sleeping better, eating better, has more energy and stamina, and is coping better with pain and fatigue.

“All due to my superior in-home care, of course,” Carrie boasts when he reports this over dinner one night.

“Well, I told them you have magic powers and now they’re thinking about offering you a job manipulating TBI patients into full recovery,” he confides.

“Geez, Quinn, don’t give away all my secrets,” she chides. “I need to keep something in reserve for the next time I have to save the world.”

He laughs out loud at this riposte, and she thinks that she could quite happily spend the rest of her life coming up with ways to make that happen.

He gets up with his empty plate and walks, unassisted, to the sink. “I’ll do the dishes tonight,” he announces.

She follows him with her own plate. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s on my ‘Activities of Daily Living’ schedule that I’m supposed to start working through,” he confirms. “I asked them today why ‘field strip a machine gun’ wasn’t on there. They all seemed to think I was joking.”

This time she’s the one who laughs out loud. She stacks up the rest of the dirty dishes for him, then goes to sort the pills for the next few days while he washes up. This is the first time he’s mentioned this schedule, she thinks. She wonders what else is on it.

They’ve been sharing a bed for nearly a month now, but they haven’t done anything in it yet other than sleep – albeit wrapped around each other. She knows he hasn’t been cleared to engage in strenuous physical activity; they’ve only recently allowed him to start going up and down stairs. She hasn’t asked any questions, figuring they’ll discuss it sooner or later. There’s certainly no lack of physical affection or contact; she can bide her time.

Early the next morning she dreams that he wakes her up to tell her that he needs to work on the schedule, and that she needs to help him. They’re lying in bed, spooning, as he tells her this.

“Sure. How?” she asks sleepily.

“Like this,” he answers gruffly, and pulls her tighter against him with the arm encircling her waist. With his other hand he smooths back her hair so that he can kiss her neck, then slides the strap of her tank top off her shoulder. She pushes back against him. Feels his hand slip under the tank top, warm against her skin. After a few minutes she can’t take any more and twists around in his embrace, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him hungrily.

He groans and slides one hand down her back and under the waistband of her shorts. She feels the calluses on his palm scrape her skin and that’s when she realizes she’s not dreaming. She freezes, one hand tangled in his hair and the other sliding down his chest.

“Quinn,” she whispers urgently, pulling back just far enough from his mouth. He opens his eyes halfway. He looks drugged.

“’S’matter?” he mumbles, stroking her hair and running his thumb over her lip.

“Are we supposed to be doing this?” she asks, shaking him gently. “Have you been cleared?”

He looks at her groggily, uncomprehending; then his forehead creases. “Fuuuuck,” he groans, and buries his face in her shoulder. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I’m happy to keep going if you are,” she says, rubbing his back, “but I’d rather this doesn’t end with you having a massive stroke.”

“At least I’d die happy,” comes the muffled response. She twitches involuntarily, and he pulls back to peer at her. “Too soon?”

“Christ, yes,” she retorts.

“Sorry,” he says ruefully, and kisses her again, lingeringly, then breaks off with another groan. “Fuck,” he says again. “I’m supposed to wait til after my next stress test results.”

“When’s that?” she asks.

“Scheduled for Friday.” 

It’s Tuesday morning. She holds his face and kisses him, trying to be as loving as possible without making them both crazy. “We’ve waited this long. Hopefully we only have to wait a little longer.”

“Fucking A,” he murmurs in agreement.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Friday night at dinner he’s subdued; tired out from all the tests and non-committal about the results.

“They have to re-check some of the numbers,” he says quietly. “They’ll tell me more tomorrow or Monday.”

She just nods and rubs his knee. She’s gotten a lot better at being patient over the past five months.

After dinner she gets an impromptu skype call from Maggie, asking about allergy and vaccination info for Frannie. After a brief hello, Peter goes to bed. He’s out like a light when she climbs in 40 minutes later. 

Early Saturday morning she hears his phone ping, and he rolls over to check it. She hears him click it off, and then he’s spooning her, his arms wrapped around her and his mouth warm against her neck.

“Who wuzzat?” she mumbles, reaching back to touch his face. 

“I passed,” he whispers against her skin.

She twists around to face him. “You passed?” she repeats.

“With flying colors,” he confirms. “Everyone’s very impressed with my motivation.”

“Do tell,” she whispers, running her fingers into his hair.

“I’d rather show you,” he murmurs. And then he picks up where he left off.


	6. Twenty-one weeks

It takes twenty-one weeks to get everything in place for the overseas transfer.

The air is crisp and cool on the early October morning when they set out for his last day of appointments at Landstuhl. Peter is walking unassisted; Carrie is pushing his wheelchair, in case he needs it later. It’s loaded down with a bag of gifts for all the people who’ve gotten them to this point. They walk slowly and companionably together, taking the wheelchair route on foot to keep stair-climbing to a minimum. 

“Strange to think that this time tomorrow we’ll be getting ready to get on a plane back to DC,” Carrie remarks, looking around the hospital grounds. “I’m beginning to feel as though I’ve never lived anywhere but here.”

Peter squints at the autumn sunlight. “Are you looking forward to it?” he asks.

Carrie ponders. “Sort of?” she responds. “I can’t wait to see Frannie again, but other than that I haven’t minded being in this…little bubble.” She looks at him. “Is that an awful thing to say?”

He bumps against her gently. “No, I know what you mean. It’s been nice having a break from the real world...even with the catastrophic injury and the gruelling rehab. Now it’s back to reality…and the unknown future.”

She stops and turns towards him, taking his hand. “Not completely unknown, right?”

“Right,” he agrees, smiling at her. 

~*~*~

When they’d started talking about overseas transfer as a realistic possibility in the medical team, he’d just listened. When they asked him what he thought, he told them he wanted to talk to her about it before the discussion of logistics went any further.

He’d gone straight back to the flat, pushing the wheelchair in front of him. He thought he’d end up wheeling himself at least part of the way, but the adrenaline from the news propelled him the whole way on foot. 

She was there when he got back, sitting cross-legged on the couch and typing furiously on her laptop. “Hey,” she said, smiling and jumping up to help him as he wrangled the wheelchair inside. “You’re back earlier than I thought. How’d everything go?”

“Good,” he said, taking off his jacket. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the couch. “I have news.”

“Tell me,” she said, sitting down next to him with her face alight.

“They’re talking about setting a date to transfer back to the US,” he said, still holding her hand and trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

Her smile got wider. “That’s great!” she exclaimed, squeezing his hand. “When?”

“Ten days, maybe two weeks?” he said, taking a deep breath.

“Wow, soon!” she said, her eyes widening. “So what do we need to do?”

This was the scary part for him. “W- I need to have an outpatient plan in place,” he said carefully, trying not to make assumptions. “I’ll get admitted to Walter Reed on arrival to make sure everything is okay, but assuming it is, they want to plan for what’s happening after that so they can set things up.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Well – I know we haven’t really talked about it yet, but I thought we could stay at my place and I could drive you back and forth until you can do it yourself? It’s less than ten miles from Walter Reed, and it’s near Maggie, so unless we need to be on-site I figured that was close enough?” She looked at him inquiringly. “Since I’m guessing you don’t have a place?”

“No,” he confirmed, “I gave it up when I went to Syria. But – I don’t want to put you on the spot, Carrie …or impose….” He saw her expression and trailed off.

“Jesus, Quinn,” she expostulated, “what is it going to take to convince you? I am not here on a whim. This is not an imposition. We are in this together. Have you changed your mind?”

“Fuck, no!” he blurted out.

“Well, neither have I,” she said severely, “and I’m not going to when we get to the other side of the Atlantic, either. So have a little faith and let’s figure out this next step.”

He leaned over and kissed her. “Thank you for that hostile declaration of your devotion. It means a lot.” He looked at her seriously. “Really.”

She touched his face gently. “I know I haven’t always been as reliable as you…or as considerate…but I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. Please believe that.”

~*~*~

It’s transfer day and everyone’s nervous. Besides Carrie and Peter, a small medical team will also be on board the transport to keep an eye on Peter and deal with anything that arises. Flying is still somewhat risky for him, but that may always be the case, and they’ve all agreed that the level of risk is acceptable and that it’s time for him to take this step. He’s got supplemental oxygen, an IV drip in case he gets dehydrated, and supplies for several other contingencies as well. They’ve given him something to help him relax and keep him that way during the flight, but also to keep him conscious so they can monitor him more easily.

They’ve been loaded on to the transport and are sitting in VIP seats so that Peter can stretch out (good for the circulation) but also keep his torso elevated (good for his breathing). Carrie is reclining right next to him, holding his hand to help keep him calm. As the crew begins final procedures for departure, Carrie looks over at Peter to find him staring drowsily at her.

“Hmmm, I think the drugs are kicking in. You okay?” she asks, twisting on to her side so that she can look at him comfortably as the plane starts to taxi.

“Mmmmm,” he hums noncommittally. “Tired.”

“I bet,” she agrees. “Well, you’ve got a good 8 hours to rest up before we get home.”

“Home,” he says quietly. “I never thought I’d be going home again. I never thought I’d have a place to go home to.”

She smiles at him, even as her eyes fill with tears. “I’m so glad you’re coming home with me.”

He sighs deeply. “Me too.” He puts his head on her shoulder. “It might even be worth all the shit it took to get us here.”


	7. Twenty-six weeks

It takes twenty-six weeks for the nightmares to start up again.

Peter spends his first seventy-two hours on US soil under observation at Walter Reed. The plane journey hasn't set him back, so after completing another round of tests and paperwork and setting up the schedule for the next phase of his rehab, Carrie comes to collect him.

She's spent the last three days getting herself and Frannie resettled in her house. 

"So you didn't sell the house when you moved to Berlin?" he asks as they make their way slowly through DC afternoon traffic.

She gives him a sideways glance. "Do *you* only have one fallback plan?" she asks pointedly.

He coughs into his hand and looks out the window.

She chuckles. "I rented it out when I left. I didn't renew when the lease came up in September. I thought we might need it."

He shakes his head. "Always one step ahead. I'm glad you're on my team, Mathison. How's Frannie?"

"She's good," Carrie smiles broadly. "Really good, actually. She seems to be adjusting to being back with me, and I've arranged that Anna will stay on for another month. She's going to stay at Maggie's, though; there's more room there, and the big girls love her. One more month will get her back to Germany before Christmas, and I'll be able to organize daycare. I think it would be good for Frannie to get back to being with other kids."

He nods. "What about you?"

She shrugs. "I'm not making any decisions about work right now. I'm still doing some contract stuff for Saul, and he's repeated his offer. But I'm going to give us all some time to get settled - at least until the new year." She looks over at him. "What about *you*?"

"I'm at Walter Reed three days a week for rehab until Christmas," he tells her. "Then we'll do another round of assessment in January."

"Then I guess I'll be polishing up my chauffeuring skills," she jokes, as they turn onto her street.

~*~*~

He feels strangely comfortable in Carrie's house right from the start. She's made space for him in the closets and dressers, and suggests they go and collect the rest of his stuff whenever he's ready.

He just looks at her when she says this. "I don't really have any 'stuff'," he confesses.

She tilts her head and looks at him skeptically. "Where's your storage unit? I know you have one."

"Franconia," he says warily.

"And what's in it?" she prods.

"Trust me, nothing you want to bring in here," he says shortly.

"Jesus, Quinn," she expostulates.

"What?" he retorts. "I'm telling you the truth."

"I know you are," she says more quietly. "That's what bothers me."

He looks away from her. "There hasn't been much I've wanted to keep mementoes of."

They're standing in her bedroom - their bedroom now; she's halfway into the closet and he's standing near the bathroom door, arms crossed, his posture stiff.

This is why he holds himself off from other people, he thinks. He knows that revealing this fact makes clear the bleak landscape that his life has mostly been, devoid of security and the creature comforts that come with it. Confronting this terrifies most people, sends them running. They're afraid of getting too close to that chaos and darkness, as if it might infect them.

Not Carrie, though, he realizes, as she walks across the room to him. She puts her hands on his waist and waits for him to unfold his arms and let her slide into them, and then she holds him tightly, her head resting on his chest. She knows what it looks like, and she's not afraid. It gives him courage to keep believing that he really can leave it behind this time.

~*~*~

Frannie, too, seems to settle into the new arrangements without much difficulty. Accustomed to kindness and affection from the adults in her life, she treats Peter from the beginning with a grave friendliness, looking at him curiously during dinner the first night and then inviting him to listen to bedtime stories afterwards. He lets her take the lead, and within a week she's joining him for early morning cereal in the kitchen, while Carrie is still asleep upstairs. She notices that he finds climbing the stairs difficult, and says, "Try like this!", then shows him how she does it - using her hands and feet as though the stairs are a ladder. He thanks her, and tries it, and she's right - it actually is easier. She beams with pride.

It really does feel natural and normal to be creating a routine: dropping Frannie off in the morning (the nanny hasn't warmed up to him yet, apparently she was crazy about Jonas); going on walks to learn the neighborhood; family dinner at Maggie's on Sunday nights; Carrie rolling over to put her arm around his waist in the middle of the night.

Then, one night in mid-November, he finds himself sitting up in bed, gasping for air, his t-shirt soaking wet.

Carrie is next to him, wide-eyed. She touches his arm hesitantly. "Quinn?"

He looks at her, fighting to catch his breath. "Are you okay? Are you okay?" he asks, agitated. He can feel his heart pounding, adrenaline thrumming through him, and he's scared, he's so scared.

"I'm okay, Quinn, everything's okay," she reassures him, rubbing his shoulder. "Are you awake?"

He looks around, trying to get his bearings in the darkened room. DC, he realizes. Not Islamabad, not Berlin. Home.

"Fuck," he gasps, slumping forward and putting his face in his hands. "Fuck me."

She comes closer, putting her arm around his shoulders and her other hand on his chest. "Do you need your inhaler?" she asks quietly.

He shakes his head no and focuses on slowing his breathing down. "What the fuck was that all about?" he asks when his heart rate starts to return to normal.

"I don't know," she responds, still holding on to him. "You started thrashing and talking, but I couldn't make out what you were saying. Do you remember?"

He rubs his head. "Not really, it was some kind of Islamabad-Berlin clusterfuck mashup." He sighs. "But why now? It's been months since I had one."

"Dr. Hall said it might happen, remember? Just before we left Berlin. She said that returning to a stable and familiar environment might signal your brain that it's safe to start processing some of your...unfinished emotional business."

"Fucking hell," he groans. "I should have stuck with boycotting talk therapy if this is what happens." 

"I'm pretty sure it happens either way, doesn't it?" she points out. "If Islamabad was anything to go by?"

He doesn't answer. She's not wrong.

"And I'm pretty sure you're better off discussing it with a qualified professional than taking it up with your old pal Johnnie Walker," she finishes acerbically.

His mouth twitches in spite of himself. "Low blow, Mathison." He sounds like himself again.

"Sorry," she says, not sounding sorry in the least. "Do you want to go back to sleep now? Or would you rather do something to take your mind off it?"

He turns toward her. "That...could be helpful. Did you have something in mind?"

She looks at him innocently; he can just make out her expression in the dim light coming in from the street. "Well, I could read to you. Or give you a head rub. Or...something else." Her hand drifts down his back, to the bottom of his t-shirt, and her thumb slides under the hem against his bare skin.

"Something else," he repeats, and puts his arm around her. "That could definitely be therapeutic."

She leans over and kisses his neck, and he pulls her back down onto the bed. This is what other people do to cope, he thinks, as she stretches herself against him and kisses him. They get scared, but they don't patrol the perimeter with a Glock in one hand and a flask in the other. They find a place and a person that makes them feel safe. 

It’s worth a try, he thinks. It’s not as though the Glock-and-flask ever really worked, after all.


	8. Forty-one weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, fuck that noise.
> 
> I watched 6.12 last night and I officially reject Homeland's reality and substitute my own. I've had this in the tank for a while, and now seems like the right time to post it. I was thinking I might have an opportunity to tie this back into the show's universe, but I don't see that happening now.
> 
> ~*~*~*~

It takes forty-one weeks before they go on their first trip together. 

Christmas was so idyllic that at one point Peter actually caught Carrie in Maggie’s kitchen, literally pinching herself. It was after dinner, adults lounging on the couches in front of the tree and the fire, chatting, girls upstairs playing with their new toys. It was even snowing lightly outside. Carrie had gotten up to use the bathroom, and when Peter went into the kitchen about five minutes later for a glass of water, he saw her do it, staring out the window into the early dusk, snow drifting down, Christmas lights shining on the house next door.

He came up behind her and slid his hands around her waist. “That good, is it?”

She turned around to face him, an incredulous look on her face, and put her hands on his shoulders. “I’m dreaming, right? I must be dreaming. Even without my dad here, it’s been a fucking perfect day. I didn’t even know that was possible.”

He smiled at her, the joy and love and pain and sadness of Christmas all mixed up together inside him. “It never was before.” He pulled her close and kissed her.

After Christmas, she goes back to the CIA full-time. She negotiates ferociously with Saul to get what she wants: regular working hours, no travel, the autonomy to choose and manage her own team. She gets it in writing, in an ironclad agreement that she works over with a lawyer before she signs. When she has the signed contract in hand, she admits to Peter that she kind of can’t believe it – both that she got what she asked for, and that _this_ is what she asked for when she got that kind of power. It doesn’t seem that long ago that she would have been gunning for station chief in the most dangerous spot she could find.

“I can’t believe how much my priorities have changed,” she says sheepishly, shaking her head at the document she’s holding.

 _Neither can I_ , Peter thinks with relief. Out loud he says neutrally, “I bet Saul can’t either.”

Peter has his quarterly major medical assessment in early January as well, and his rehab sessions are cut from three days a week to one and a half. His primary doctor tells him, with characteristic frankness, that he can’t believe the progress Peter’s making. Peter appreciates that he doesn’t praise him, fawn over him, or tell him he’s an inspiration.

“You’re a fucking machine, man,” he tells Peter bluntly. (Why yes, he is in the military. What tipped you off?) “What are you doing the rest of the time? Any secrets you want to share with the rest of us?”

Out of that conversation begins Peter’s volunteer work at Walter Reed – he continues going three days a week, devoting what had been his rehab time to helping other people going through similar experiences. His particular combination of iron-willed determination, clear-eyed compassion, and been-there-done-that credibility helps him establish an instant rapport with a good number of other patients. He’s been cleared to drive, so on those days they switch from Carrie driving him to Peter driving her, dropping her off and picking her up in Langley. They still only have one car, and it helps everyone get used to the idea that Carrie works a normal day now.

Of course Peter’s the first person Carrie asks when she starts assembling her team. He’s not ready to go back to work, and he doesn’t particularly want to have any further involvement with the CIA. Nor do they need the money – Dar Adal (that fucker) has actually come through with a generous pension, and Peter has built up quite a nest egg over two decades of domestic arrangements involving canned food and sleeping bags. But Carrie wants his perspective on certain situations – she knows he is deliberative and thorough where she is impulsive and impatient, and she recognizes now that she needs that balance. So he spends about a day a week reading through intel, discussing events and scenarios with her and other team members. It brings in some extra money, and it helps get his brain working properly again. 

The rest of the time – more or less – he reads. He’s always liked to read, always had a book stashed with his gear, no matter how lightly he was travelling, but it was always haphazard, whatever he could pick up in his travels. Now he’s taking a systematic approach. Carrie is bemused to realize that not only has he gotten hold of two or three of those ‘X Books To Read Before You Die’ lists, he has, in what she is coming to realize is typical Peter fashion, analysed the lists, broken them down chronologically, and is reading the books in that order. When she teases him about it, he just grins and shrugs.

“I never got to go to college,” he says ruefully, “and I’ve never had time to make up for it until now. Maybe if I learn a little more about how people get so fucked up, and how we got to where we are, I can actually accomplish something useful in the world.” 

She looks at him, sitting on the couch and folding laundry with _Don Quixote_ open next to him, and thinks to herself, _You already do_.

~*~*~*

Carrie comes home from work one Thursday night in early March to find Peter and Frannie pulling things out of closets and cupboards, making a pile of bags in the front hall. 

“What’s all this?” she asks, as Frannie bounces around her excitedly.

“Road trip! Road trip!” Frannie yells.

Carrie looks at Peter inquiringly as he comes in from the kitchen, carrying a bag of food. He’s dragging his left foot, a sign that he’s getting tired, and he smiles at her as she goes to help him. 

“Maggie called to say they can’t go to the cabin this weekend after all and someone needs to check that the pipes aren’t frozen, and did we want to? And apparently we have decided we do,” he explains, indicating the still-bouncing Frannie.

She stops in the act of putting down the bag, looking from Frannie back to him. She hasn’t been back to the cabin since…since that weekend with Brody, she thinks. Certainly not since her father died.

Not deliberately. She’s been away so much over the last few years. But she hasn’t pursued the opportunity, either, not wanting to awaken memories, good or bad; feeling too fragile to take them on.

But now….She’s still standing there, motionless, and he touches her arm. “Is that okay, Carrie? Do we…do we want to go?” he asks carefully.

She looks at him, and decides. “Yes! We do!” Carrie exclaims, scooping Frannie up and squeezing her. Frannie squeals with joy.

~*~*~*~

They sneak off mid-afternoon on Friday, get out before the traffic, and pull up to the cabin in slushy snow as dusk is falling. They unpack, make up the beds, make dinner, and fall into bed exhausted as soon as Frannie is tucked in. As he drifts off, Peter notices how absolutely still it is outside, how peaceful it is here. All the drama he’s witnessed here (and some he’s been part of) seems to have made little impression on the atmosphere of ageless serenity.

Saturday morning is sunny and bright. Frannie is up early with the sun (no blackout curtains at the cabin, unlike her room at home) and clamouring for pancakes, a recently established weekend ritual. (Among his other rehabilitation activities, Peter has started learning to cook. He has the patience and attention for it, unlike Carrie.)

(About 75% of his repertoire so far has been learned in response to requests from Frannie.)

They spend most of the day outside, enjoying the warmth of the sun on their faces and the messy snow underfoot. They tromp through the woods in boots, make a snowman (“More like a slushman,” Carrie mutters to Peter as Frannie runs inside for a carrot to finish him off), come inside to eat tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, go back out to play at the lake edge. Even Frannie getting soaked to the waist doesn’t faze anyone – it’s almost dinner- and bath-time by then anyway.

Carrie gets Frannie bathed and into pajamas while Peter builds a fire in the fireplace and makes dinner. They’re sitting around the table, eating steak and baked potatoes and roasted broccoli, the fire roaring in the background, and Carrie gets the urge to pinch herself again. 

Frannie looks up from her plate, her cheeks red from all the fresh air and her eyes bright. “I had fun today!” she announces, looking from her mother to Peter and back again. “I have a question.”

“Just one?” Peter teases, smiling at her.

She sticks her tongue out at him, then looks at Carrie. “Mommy,” she begins, with what Carrie secretly thinks of as the “inquisitor look”, “is Peter my daddy?”

Later, Peter and Carrie will agree that it seemed as though they gawped and sputtered at Frannie and each other, mouths opening and closing with no meaningful noises coming out, for approximately 45 minutes. It’s not nearly that long in reality, of course, although they never work out exactly how long it actually it does take them to regroup.

Frannie doesn’t appear to notice. She sits there and waits for an answer.

Finally Carrie looks at Peter helplessly, then focuses on Frannie.

“Why do you ask, Frannie?” she replies.

Classic interrogation deflection technique, Peter thinks. Nice.

Then remembers he’s thinking this about a four-year-old.

Frannie is ready.

“Well, he takes me to school and makes me pancakes and puts me to bed and told me how to make Gavin stop teasing me and those are all things that daddies do. And when I was little in Berlin you told me that my daddy had to go away and got really hurt and that was why he couldn’t come back. And Peter got really hurt and he was in the hospital for a long time while I was with Aunt Maggie and had to learn to walk again. So does that mean he’s my daddy?”

“Well….” Carrie starts and then trails off, flummoxed and overcome. She looks at Peter again and he puts his hand over hers. “Can I try?” he asks her quietly, and she nods.

Peter looks at Frannie. “Your dad did get really hurt, Frannie, and he still can’t come back. But I care about you and your mom very much, so I try to do the dad stuff that he can’t be here to do.”

Frannie nods, taking this in. “Okay. So can we pretend you’re my daddy?”

“O-kay, sure.…” Peter says slowly, looking at Carrie, who’s still sitting perfectly still. “So that means….”

“I can tell people at school you’re my daddy?”

“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with your mom….” He hedges, looking between them again. Carrie still appears to be frozen. “Carrie?”

“What? Yes, yes, that’s fine,” she says hurriedly. Frannie seems satisfied and eats her last bite of potato. “Can I have some dessert?” she asks.

~*~*~*

Frannie’s eyes start to droop as soon as she finishes her cookies and milk, and Peter reads to her and tucks her in while Carrie cleans up from dinner. He comes back into the kitchen as she finishes rinsing the last of the dishes and begins wiping down the counters.

“Wow,” he says, leaning against the fridge. “That girl has a bright future as an interrogator ahead of her. Not even five years old and she’s managed to stump not one but two highly trained ex-operatives.”

“Is she asleep?” Carrie asks. He nods. “Out like a light after all that fresh air and exercise.”

“Good,” she says, rinsing the cloth one last time and hanging it over the faucet. She comes over and stands in front of him. “Jesus, Quinn. I can’t believe we never strategised about how to handle that conversation. We should have seen it coming.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, rubbing her arm reassuringly. “I think we handled it okay.”

“But she totally put you on the spot,” she protests. “I don’t want you feeling like you have to commit to something if you’re not….” She trails off when she sees the expression on his face.

He stands up from his leaning position and takes hold of her upper arms. “Carrie, what are you talking about?” he asks incredulously. “Have I given you some reason to think I’m not fully prepared to commit to both you and Fr-Frannie?” 

She hasn’t heard him stammer in weeks, she thinks. She must have really upset him.

“No, of course not, Quinn,” she protests. “It’s just that I’m so happy with the way things are, and everything seems so – so normal and right. I forget about the – the formalities and that it’s not just about the three of us being happy together.”

“What do you need, Carrie?” he asks, still holding her by the arms and peering intently into her face. “I meant what I said in the hospital and I haven’t changed my mind. What do you need to be sure I’m in this for the long haul? Tell me and I’ll do it. Do you want to get married? Do you want me to legally adopt Frannie? What?”

“I – I don’t know, I haven’t even thought about any of that,” she stammers, staring up at him. “Fuck, Quinn, do you mean that?”

“Whatever you need, Carrie,” he says, almost whispering. “Always.”

Her eyes fill with tears and she pulls his face down to kiss him. His hands slide down to her waist and he pulls her in tightly against him.


End file.
